Does it ever dawn on you how lucky we are to be here?

The odds of you specifically being born are 1 in 400 trillion…

We aren't all handed an easy deck of cards, and none of us are immune to the hard stuff. But somewhere in the middle of all of it — the grief, the grind, the good days and the genuinely terrible ones — it feels pretty damn good to just exist.

And I love getting to do comedy, share my thoughts here freely, and help others whenever time or money or both allow it.

I’m very aware of making whatever impact I can, while recognizing that despite the moments when our time here feels small and fleeting, we have a purpose.

I mean, we’re here.

This past Saturday, Jake and I spent the morning feeding people in need. A good reminder that even just showing up a little for someone else can make them feel seen and significant too.

I've been showing up here every Tuesday for over a year and a half now — through grief, big career moves, life changes, and hectic schedules.

And I realize, I don't actually know how you're doing.

On stage I can read a room instantly. I know within thirty seconds if a crowd is with me or not. The newsletter is a bit more... mysterious. I can tell if something struck a chord with someone positively because they’ll reply to my emails and let me know. I can tell if the opposite happens when I see a rare unsubscribe.

I'm essentially talking into a void and hoping it lands somewhere useful or funny or both.

So consider this my official mic check. A mid-summer pulse on both ends.

How are YOU doing? What do you want more of here? Less of? Are you even out there?

Tap the mic back. Reply to this. I genuinely want to know.

I’m headed to scope out a new podcast studio after I send this off. Would we like a newsletter and podcast combo finally??

The Hustle

Showing up is underrated.

Not the glamorous showing up. Not the red carpet, sold out show, big announcement kind. The quiet kind. The Tuesday morning kind. The "I had a really hard day yesterday but I'm here anyway" kind. The “I’m showing up for the people I love without making a social declaration of it” kind.

There's something that happens when you commit to a cadence — whether it's a newsletter, a workout, a creative practice, a morning routine with the kids, a relationship — and you just keep going even when it feels like nobody's watching or nobody cares or you'd genuinely rather be horizontal on your couch eating honey mustard Dots pretzels.

You remind yourself you can do hard things, that you’re capable of not only showing up for you but for many others. And that people would notice if you weren’t here, doing all the little things you do.

I had a hard grief day yesterday. A real bad one. Most days I feel like I’m choking down missing my dad in order to just survive in the world, and get through shows, and handle my commitments, and then it catches up to me and I feel immense guilt for trying to pretend I’m alright.

I cried it out last night before bed. Let the tension break.

And this morning I got up anyway. Had my 7:30am Solidcore workout. Made the smoothie. Wrote the newsletter.

Not because I'm superhuman. Because showing up IS the practice. Even when — especially when — it's the last thing you feel like doing.

That small reminder that you matter, and so do all the people you show up for.

That's the hustle nobody posts about. The invisible reps. The hard nights. The shower cries or the silent car rides staring into the road ahead.

The mic checks into the void.

It all counts. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Because we are 1 in 400 trillion.

The Chill

Here's what I do know about hard days: they end.

Yesterday was heavy. Today is lighter. Not because anything changed externally, but because I let myself feel it fully instead of pushing through it. The cry before bed wasn't weakness — it was a full cabin depressurization.

Like in those astronaut movies. To prevent completely imploding between the mothership and space.

The chill lately looks like small things. A Saturday morning helping people. Plans with mom. Lunches with my niece. Bike rides by the water.

Grief has taught me that joy doesn't disappear — it just gets quieter sometimes.

I remember even in my early comedy days, when I had absolutely nothing (no credits, no money LOL), and I was still posting on good ol’ Facebook how much I love life, and I’m happy to be alive, and I love my friends and family so much.

That’s all still there. Only sometimes when you’re going through things, it’s like when you have a cold. You feel fine, but you’re functioning just a little less like your normal rockstar level self. And because you’re not firing on all cylinders, you get frustrated with yourself. And you have to catch yourself and give you some grace.

But I’m still here. We’re all still here. And that’s beating some pretty vast odds.

And if you're reading this on a hard day — whether it's grief or exhaustion or just the particular weight of being a person in the world right now — I hope this landed somewhere helpful.

You're also 1 in a million. Times a million. Times another 400.

That’s epic. Remember that.

Upcoming Shows

TONIGHT Tues July 14th: Second City ETC Stage

Friday July 17th: The Blackout Diaries at Lincoln Lodge

Madison Comedy Week - My Headlining show Friday Aug 22! - get your tickets now before it sells out. If you missed the NPH discount deadline for July 5th, welp, don’t miss it next time. lol

Love you all and cheers to the hustle + chill. We really are lucky to be here.

xx NPH